


these truths the Maker has revealed to me

by makeshiftrolley



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, No Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:23:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4003963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeshiftrolley/pseuds/makeshiftrolley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josephine prays for the Inquisitor</p>
<p>a.k.a: An Insight to Josephine's faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these truths the Maker has revealed to me

> These truths the Maker has revealed to me:  
>  As there is but one world,  
>  One life, one death, there is  
>  But one god, and He is our Maker.  
>  They are sinners, who have given their love  
>  To false gods.
> 
> - _Transfigurations 1:1_ _  
> _

 

They say when you light a fresh candle and place it before the Bride of the Maker, you can make a wish; and the strength of your prayers will determine if the Maker grants your wish.

Josephine is still, kneeling before the Bride. Her hands are clasped together in prayer; the tips of her fingers pressed at the bottom of her lip. Her candle, tall and slender, a fresh white instead of a deep red, stands right at the feet of Andraste. The colour is a stark contrast to the molten red wax that surrounds it, and its light flickers in the darkness. _A guiding star_ , Josephine muses. 

If anyone walks in, they may see a woman deep in prayer; saying her devotions as if they were a creed. Surrounded by darkness, they fail to see the golden threads of her dress, the velvet silk spun by the best seamstress of Antiva, and perhaps, see the silhouette of her bun and think of her as a lay sister. If only it were true, for at this moment Josephine fails to put words in her mind (her tools, _her weapons_ ), and make them into a prayer.

Mother always wore a veil when she says her devotions. In the Grand Cathedral of Antiva City, its spires towering over every structure in the city, and the statue of Andraste is carved at the centre of those spires, her mother makes her benedictions. She bows her head and kneels at the foot of the Bride; her dark veil shadows her exquisite face. Words spill from her lips as water spills from a jug. Josephine wonders how her mother could pray for an hour, two hours, _three_. What did she ask for the Maker? Did she ask for a good life when she had everything? Did she pray for her husband, her children?

(A grotto sits at the middle of their garden, flowers circled the statue of Andraste. Josephine kneeled, her exquisite face shadowed by a veil and she and prayed and forced words from her lips. Less than fifteen minutes, she stood up and went back to her duties).

Leliana says her prayers like they are the last words she will ever say.  _Blessed are the righteous,_ she whispers before she eats her morning meal.  _The lights in the shadows_ , comes out of her lips right before a meeting with the Inquisitor. _In their blood the Maker’s will is written_ , she murmurs right before she retires for the day. And Josephine wonders if Leliana knew the Chant of Light in her heart, if she could say it with earnest when commanded.

(Maybe Leliana is assuring her faith. Saying her prayers out loud, making sure the Maker exist and is listening to her. She wants to believe he did not abandon her as he abandoned Divine Justinia.)

Cassandra prays as a soldier would pray, filled with routines and patterns and regulations. When the sun peaks through the Frostback Mountains, tinting the sky with pinks and purples, Cassandra marches into the chapel as if she were marching into the battlefield. She lights a burner and fills every corner of the chapel with the earthy aroma of frankincense. Then she takes a fresh candle from a wooden box, lights it and places it at the foot of the Bride, just where Josephine’s candle sits. Cassandra bows before kneeling and saying her prayers. Josephine has watched her pray before, she does not murmur like Leliana or her mother but Josephine knows how deep Cassandra’s prayers are.

Cassandra blesses the chapel with frankincense before she leaves.

(To Cassandra, the Chant of Light is another duty fit for a soldier. She is a Seeker of Truth, the Right Hand of the Divine. It is a duty she must follow or her work for the Maker is void).

Cullen does not pray, or maybe he does not pray the same way her mother, Leliana or Cassandra do-kneeling in front of the Bride or speaking their benedictions. He stands, back in a straight line and searches those lifeless eyes for answers. His lips are pressed into a thin line, maybe he too struggles to form words in his mind, and put them in a prayer. Yet when Josephine enters the chapel for when she tries to pray, Cullen turns, startled like a frightened animal, Josephine knows how deep his prayers were.

(Cullen was a Templar. He expects Andraste to bless him in the form of a Grand Cleric. He does not kneel for kneeling shows weakness, and he was told mages will exploit his weakness).

Josephine looks at her candle. Molten wax starts to pool around its feet. It mixes with the red wax, turning the deep red into a shade of pink.

She had never been strong in her faith, not as strong as her mother or Leliana or Cassandra or even Cullen. She goes to the sermons, listens to the Grand Cleric sing praise to the Maker, intently. She prays when she can, if she does not struggle with her prayers. Yet deep in her heart, she feels a sense of emptiness, a detachment towards the faith she grew up with. Her prayers have always been empty words, asking for foolish things. Her mind wanders into the skies when she hears the Grand Cleric say her sermons.

Being faithful has always been a duty to Josephine, to her family and to her country, as the rightful heir to the Montilyet household and the ambassador of Antiva to Orlais.

Until she met the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste to some and a false prophet to others. She survived the blast that killed thousands, and survived a direct attack by a magister who proclaims himself a god. Surely, she must have been sent by Andraste.

(Or Lavellan must have the worst luck. No, Josephine refused to believe, for luck cannot save her all the time, and only the divine power of the Maker can.)

Josephine shifts to one side, her knees growing numb from kneeling on the stone-cold floor. How long has she been in here?

The Inquisitor is an elf, a Dalish elf (though she ran away from her clan out of stubbornness), who may not believe in the Maker and only in the elven gods (Lavellan told her she is not sure if she believed in anything, not in her gods or in the Maker). And making her the head of an organization founded as a weapon of the Chantry is a mockery of her people. (Cassandra swears they are different from the Inquisition of old. Lavellan _hopes_ they are different from the Inquisition of old).

Yet Lavellan accepts her role, does her work for the Inquisition by solving disputes, stopping assassinations and helping those in need. Which requires her to be away from Skyhold all of the time, away from _her._ Josephine waits like a lovelorn lass at the entrance of the castle, every day for her return.

Until the horn blows a joyous sound, and Lavellan rushes to her arms, spins her around-a habit she picked up the first time she spun Josephine in the middle of Val Royeaux after winning her heart-and brings Josephine to her lips. The taste of longing hangs on Lavellan’s lips when they part. One day, Lavellan may not return, and that fear creeps into her belly in the middle of the night, while the Inquisitor and her party are away saving Thedas. She hates to wait at the entrance of the castle, to hear the horn and the party returns without _her_ to take Josephine in her arms.

They have been away for more than a week in the Western Approach, and the fear creeps into her belly again.

_They say when you light a fresh candle and place it before the Bride of the Maker, you can make a wish; and the strength of your prayers will determine if the Maker grants your wish._

Josephine presses her hands harder than she has ever, and whispers a small wish:

_Please, oh please, return her to me._

For the first time in years, Josephine prays, sends her devotions to the Maker as her mother would do, and mumbles verses of the Chant of Light as Leliana would. Occasionally, she searches those lifeless eyes of Andraste as Cullen does in his prayers, and covers the room with the aroma of frankincense before she leaves, just as Cassandra would.

Only the will of the Maker shall determine if her prayers are strong enough.

**Author's Note:**

> uh yeah I have one of these things. Actually just follow me at pentilyets on tumblr. I talk a lot!
> 
> Okay a few things though, a lot of what I've based Josephine's stance on her faith on what a lot of faith practitioners are. Most of them believe they are not good enough for their faith because they do not do certain things (like filling the room with frankincense for example). I do believe Josephine is Andrastian? Unless I'm completely wrong.
> 
> Also slightly inspired by madamebadger's Book of Days. It's a pentilyet fic that I encourage all of you to read!


End file.
